


yellow paint

by conchorde



Category: King Falls AM (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Post-Episode: e084 Red Comforter, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Reunion Fic, the fourth sammiversary gets the angst treatment we were expecting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-15
Updated: 2019-05-15
Packaged: 2020-03-05 19:43:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18835486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/conchorde/pseuds/conchorde
Summary: It was always the same dream. Their bedroom, back in their studio apartment in the big city, had yellow paint. It was a soft golden yellow, like the early morning sun.[Or; Sammy goes it alone in the station on the fourth Sammiversary]





	yellow paint

**Author's Note:**

> Make It Sad TM is my motto, and I saw this post (trashedeggnog.tumblr.com/post/184058333887/what-if-in-the-sammiversary-the-void-gave-jack) and I kept thinking about this scenario, so here it is. Enjoy crying with me.

That morning, the pre-dawn light had filtered through the curtains. A bird had called, a car had driven by. Their bedroom, back in their studio apartment in the big city, had yellow paint. It was a soft golden yellow, like the early morning sun. Jack had been curled up against Sammy’s chest, bunching the sheets around him, before he had pulled a box out of the nightstand drawer and wrapped that forever golden band around Sammy’s finger.

It was always the same goddamn dream.

Jack always turned to Sammy, half-raised on his elbow. He always had that one eyebrow crooked quizzically, and Sammy always wanted to kiss it. Jack always moved an inch away when Sammy tried, that smile only wavering a little, that hint of doubt rising behind Jack’s features.

Sammy always, _always_ said yes.

Jack didn’t always speak. Sometimes they would simply tie their souls together, fit those rings on their fingers, and hear the city wake up. Sometimes they would just intertwine their fingers and their hearts, even if only privately, if only in that one room, if no one else knew.

Sammy dreaded falling asleep, because sometimes Jack did speak.

His voice would twist mid-sentence. Morph into something that was decidedly _not Jack._ Jack’s bright eyes, staring so hopefully, so lovingly, into Sammy’s, would darken, the pupil expanding. Jack’s features would contort, and Sammy’s best friend, _his goddamn fiancée_ , would tear at his skin and his hair until they came apart and something _else_ emerged.

The yellow paint on the walls would melt, dripping like blood onto the carpet.

His grip on Sammy’s hand would become vicelike, and Sammy wouldn’t be able to move because this not-Jack’s fingers were as heavy as lead and twice and cold. He would pull Sammy down, pinning him on the bed that somehow felt like a forest floor with foreign, otherworldly strength, and Sammy couldn’t move and even though he tried, something whispered in his ear that _he didn’t want to_ , _not really_.

The bright light would be gone like a sudden eclipse had pulled the sun out of the sky and he was _so goddamn cold_ and he all could hear was deep, booming laughter and the unyielding grip pulling him down and then the Shadowmaker spoke, with Jack’s twisted voice and the heart of a soul-dead forest.

_Yield, Samuel Stevens._

* * *

The latest insufferable Archie’s Pomchi Palace jingle faded out.

“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” Sammy began as the familiar electric guitar riff played into his headset. “Thanks for sticking with us through that break - got to keep the lights on. This is the Sammy and Ben Show on King Falls AM - that’s 660 on the AM dial. If you’re just tuning in, my co-host, Ben, wasn’t feeling well yesterday, so it’s just me tonight in the studio.”

Sammy reached over to Ben’s side of the soundboard, pushing aside the multitude of candy wrappers covering the dials, and unearthed Ben’s schedule. “I’ll be speaking with Jill Castleberry of Castleberry Landscaping to discuss the upcoming King Falls Homeowners Association’s gardening contest in about a half hour, but until then, the phone lines are open. What’s on your mind tonight, King Falls? Got any exciting plans, now that spring has finally arrived? Give us a call here in the studio, and let’s chat. 424-279-3858.”

The phone lines quickly lit up. Sammy picked one at random. “Line three, you’re live with Sammy and —sorry, just Sammy. You’re live.”

“You’re speaking with Jill _Creeps_ berry instead of _me_? Exactly what I’d expect from my least favorite radio show.”

Sammy sputtered. “Pete Meyers?”

“You’re damn right it’s Pete Meyers. The landscape artist. My lawn has won the King Falls Homeowners Association’s Gardening Contest two years running.”

“That’s definitely not at all related to HFB3 being on the board, right?”

“Don’t slander Mr. Beauregard’s good name with that nonsense, Stevens. No one’s lawn mower is as fast as Pete Meyers’s. No one’s.”

Sammy cleared his throat. “I’m sure Jill would be more than happy to speak with—”

“I’m not going anywhere near that creepy lady, Sammy. Her landscaping prices are ridiculous _and_ I heard she drowns—”

“Slow down there, Pete, you’re going to alienate some of our listeners.”

“Good, they shouldn’t be going anywhere near Jill in the first place.”

“Pete,” Sammy sighed. “I’m sure that’s not true. She’s a perfectly lovely woman and I’m looking forward to speaking with her tonight.”

“Don’t—”

“Did you have a reason for calling tonight _other_ than insulting patrons of the show?” Sammy interrupted tiredly.

Pete paused. “I just wanted to…tell the good people of King Falls about the dangers of Creepsberry Landscaping, and if you stop by Mr. Beauregard’s grounds the week of the gardening competition and vote for Pete Meyers Landscaping, I might just throw in a free ride on my mower.”

“Thanks for calling in, Pete,” Sammy replied as Pete hung up. “You heard it here first folks, free rides on Pete’s lawn mower next week.”

Sammy sighed, glancing at the clock. _3:58 am_. Damn, this was going to be a long evening.

He picked another line at random. “Good evening, you’re live on the Sammy and Ben Show.”

“Sammy Stevens, you ought to be ashamed of yourself.”

Sammy chuckled. “Hey, Troy, good to hear from you. How are things up at the Sheriff's Department tonight?”

Troy let out an exasperated sigh. “Things are as good as ever, Sammy, but you _know_ Ben would be disappointed in you for not even _mentioning_ that it’s the anniversary of you being on the show!”

“Well, Ben did leave me a very detailed schedule for what he’s calling the fourth Sammiversary,” Sammy replied, flipping over the schedule. “It’s in bold and underlined on every page, and detailed down to the minute.”

“And you’re not celebrating?”

Sammy paused. “It’s also the anniversary of some…other things.”

“I—”

“Plus,” Sammy rushed, cutting Troy off, trying not to spiral down that path ( _don’t think about the Doorstep, and the lights, and the darkness curling cold and heavy in the pit of your stomach, Stevens, because Jack is in the fucking Void, and you’re not even good enough to join him there_ ), “I wouldn’t want to celebrate without Ben. I swear this is more for him at this point, anyway, so I’m postponing the fourth Sammiversary celebration until he’s back on air with us.”

“Well,” Troy said hesitantly, “I’m not sure if Ben will appreciate you going off-schedule—“

“I’m fully expecting to get an earful about that tomorrow night.”

“—I’m sure he still will appreciate celebrating with you.”

“I hope so,” Sammy replied with a wry smile.

“Happy anniversary, Sammy.”

“Thanks, Troy. You have a good night.”

“You as well, Sammy,” Troy said, and the line went dead.

Sammy exhaled slowly. _Goddamn_ , this night was going to be harder than he thought. He wanted to just throw on a “Best Of” tape and call it a night.

“We’re still taking your calls, King Falls. Talking about whatever’s clever,” Sammy said instead, selecting a phone line. “Line six, you’re live with—”

“ _Shotgun_ ,” answered a drawling voice.

He pressed his lips into a thin line and tried not to sound exasperated. “Hey there, Doyle. It is Doyle, correct?”

“You got that right, Shotgun,” the caller confirmed. “It’s Doyle, Doyle Bevins.”

_What the hell_ , he thought, and engaged Doyle in conversation. “What’s on your mind tonight?”

“Well, it was just the darndest thing,” Doyle began. “I was walking into my kitchen, all careful-like, since I left some glass on the floor the other night, and—”

“Wait, did you just say you left broken glass on your kitchen floor?”

“Well of course I did. Gotta keep those apparitions out somehow,” Doyle replied.

Sammy just shook his head. “That doesn’t seem like a good idea.”

“Oh, it’s a great idea, Shotgun. You’ve gotta try it.”

“I think I’ll pass, thanks.”

“So I was walking into my kitchen, right,” Doyle continued, “just tip-toeing around the corners, when I heard this terrible racket coming from—you’ll never guess—my _microwave_.”

He rolled his eyes. It was times like these that Sammy was very glad he was a radio host. “Was the timer going off?”

“Of course not, Shotgun. Haven’t used that microwave in at least six months.”

“Probably haven’t cleaned it since then, either,” Sammy muttered, figuring he’d fill in for Ben there.

Doyle huffed out a breath. “Can I finish, Sammy? Can I finish?”

“Go on.”

“Like I was saying, tip-toeing around the corners, broken glass and all that, and what do I see with my own eyes in my own kitchen? Nothing other than—”

The hotline rang.

“Sorry, Doyle,” Sammy said quickly, before Doyle took up any more airtime. “It’s the hotline. Feel free to call back.”

“But I—”

Sammy dumped the line unapologetically, grabbing the hotline phone. “Hello? You’re live with—”

A sleep-heavy voice picked up. “Sammy?”

“ _Ben_? Why the hell are you awake? You took the night off because you were sick, remember? It better not be about any Sammiversary shit—”

“Sammy,” Ben interrupted. He let out a cough, and _damn_ , he didn’t sound too great. “Did you leave the radio on in your room or something, man?”

Something clenched in his gut. “No, Ben, I—”

“I was _trying_ to sleep, you know, like you’re apparently _supposed to_ when you’re sick or whatever,” Ben continued, and there was that medium rage, just bubbling to the top. “But there’s like a bunch of static coming from your room, like you left your radio on but turned to the wrong dial. I don’t even listen to the radio anymore—well, besides 660 AM of course—but man, how old are you?”

“Ben,” Sammy deadpanned. “Is Lily there with you?”

“What? No, it’s just me. Katie Lynch picked up Lily like an hour ago.” Ben paused, sniffling, and that’s when Sammy heard it. The buzzing. The static. “Dang, do you have like a remote control on your volume dial? It’s so loud.”

His chest crawled. He swore the static got louder. “Get out of the house.”

Ben coughed out his surprise. “What?”

“I don’t have an alarm clock, Ben. I use my phone.”

Ben let out a sudden shout as a boom resonated through the radio equipment. The static only increased, and _Sammy didn’t hear whispers, he didn’t._

Sammy white-knuckled his chair. “What the hell is going—?”

“Sammy,” Ben said finally, and Sammy could breathe for a moment. “The static is too loud, I can’t hear you. I’m going to go shut it off and try and get some sleep.”

“Don’t you dare do that, Ben. Don’t you fucking dare.”

“What, Sammy? I can’t—”

And that’s when Sammy heard it.

_Yield._

“No. No no _no_ ,” Sammy stuttered into the microphone. “Not here, not Ben.”

“Can’t make you out, sorry, Sammy. I’m—” Ben’s voice crackled through the speakers, audio quality affected by whatever the hell was in Sammy’s room. “Did we turn the air conditioning on, Sammy?”

“No, Ben, we didn’t,” Sammy said helplessly, and he heard the squeak of the hinges on his bedroom door open.

“I’m just so cold, Sammy,” Ben said, and there is was, that same wavering note of fear in his voice, the same one that was there the night Emily came home. “I’m just so _cold_.”

The static fell away. The Shadowmaker spoke.

_Yield, Samuel Stevens._

“Goddamnit, god _fucking_ damn it,” Sammy half-whispered, half-shouted. “You let him go, you hear me? You fucking let Ben go right now.”

“I—I’m okay,” Ben said quietly, and fear chalked his voice, and Sammy had never wanted to trade places more. “It’s dark, Sammy. I can’t see anything.”

_Yield, or I will take him too._

Sammy’s heart was in his throat. “No, shit, goddamnit, _no_. Get out of there, Ben. Get out right now.”

“I can’t move, Sammy,” Ben replied, and his voice sounded so hoarse, so weary. “This darkness, it’s so cold, and heavy, and I’m so fucking scared, man.”

“It’s gonna be okay, Ben. I promise,” Sammy said. With shaking hands, he reached for his phone. “I’m calling Troy right now, and he’ll get you out of there, just hang—”

_We will make a bargain, Samuel Stevens._

 “You want to fucking take me into your goddamn Void too? Do it. Second time’s the charm.”

Ben’s voice was desperate. “Don’t you dare leave me again.”

_I do not want you, Samuel Stevens. But this young one here, his soul is bright. He’s yearning for something more. I want him._

“Don’t touch him.”

_I take what I want, Samuel Stevens. But we will make a bargain. Benjamin Arnold, for Jack Wright._

His heart stopped. Sammy swore it did, for a half-second.

“Sammy, we have to consid—”

And then all the puzzle pieces clicked into piece. “No fucking way, Ben. No way. You stay with me, here, free of the Void. I’ve already lost Jack. I’m not losing the only home I have left. I’m not losing you.”

_It’s not up to you, Samuel._

For one long moment, the airwaves were silent.

“Don’t you dare, Ben.”

“I’ll do it.”

_It is done._

“What—”

“It’s too late, Sammy. I’m sorry. I love you so much, man. I’m sorry. Tell Emily I—”

With a gust of unearthly wind, Ben Arnold’s voice vanished, along with the static, and the singing in Sammy’s ears, and the goddamn Shadowmaker himself.

For one long moment, only Sammy Steven’s sobs echoed through the radio station.

But, then.

“H—Hello? Where am I?”

And then Sammy was crying for a whole different reason.

* * *

The guest bedroom in Emily Potter’s house had yellow paint. Not quite the soft golden yellow of their studio apartment back in the big city, but a bright, cheery, happy color. Like sunflowers on a cloudy day. Pre-dawn light filtered through the curtains. A bird called, a car drove by.

A notebook lay open on the nightstand, containing sketches and outlines by Emily, Lily, Troy. Anyone Sammy could recruit. The Void wasn’t keeping Ben, that was for damn certain.

Jack curled up against Sammy’s chest, bunching the sheets around him as he always had. His chest rose and fell evenly.

Their rings still matched.


End file.
